


My Little Secret

by AutumnDreams



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Belle / Mr. Gold, Alternate Universe, Angst, Belle French / Mr. Gold, Drama, F/M, Hurt, Marcus Gold - Freeform, Marriage of Convenience, Storybrooke, Unrequited Love, non-curse, non-cursed storybrooke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:59:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnDreams/pseuds/AutumnDreams
Summary: She draws in a breath before picking it up. Were she a braver woman she’d confront him with it – but she’s not. Their last words to each other had been harsh, thrown at each other in passion and in pain; her calling him a coward, him threatening her with a lawsuit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
> _AN: My first venture into not only Rumbelle fanfiction writing but Once Upon a Time as well. This is an AU story set in a non-curse Storybrooke universe. I’m still finding my voice for both of these characters so I apologize if they are glaringly off. Lastly, if you enjoy; or even if you don’t; please let me know. ~ J_  
> 

She watches from her perch, knees drawn to her chest, as he leaves the pawn shop. It’s always the same routine, night after night; lights off in the back room, the main shop following moments later. Always a pause each night and Belle knows from past evenings together that he’s setting the alarms. She’s unmoving through all this, always tucked away behind her bedroom curtains. The dark her cloak from his all-seeing eyes. Night after night, Belle watches, and each night it is always the same.

Until tonight.

She is still perched behind her yellow curtains, the window closed to ward off the April chill, as she watches for Marcus. It has been one month, four days, ten hours, and thirty-five minutes since they parted ways.

His choice – never hers.

The March morning had been frigid, much like the temperature of the bedroom the two had been in. She still wrapped in the loose cotton sheets, hair mused and eyes glittering as she tried to salvage something of their year-long relationship. Tried to tell him that it was a mistake; even if it wasn’t; just a silly little mistake uttered in the throes of passion. He had stood in his impeccable Armani suit, hands gripping the gold head of his cane, eyes cold as he informed her their dalliance was over.

Oh how she had tried to reason with him, almost begging him not to end things. For over a year that had had an arrangement; companionship and sex – nothing more. He had been excessively clear at the start – there would be nothing between them but conversation over dinner, of weekends spent in Bangor at the Symphony or the Ballet, of nights between the sheets in his bedroom or a posh hotel room. Until she had sleepily uttered those awful words.

_I love you_.

She’d always been so careful. Even with the knowledge that she’d been half in love with him from the start, for weeks and months she had carefully guarded her little secret. Naively she had believed she could exist in the relationship that he had so carefully laid out, loving him while knowing he didn’t love her. Or perhaps on some subconscious level, she had always hoped that he would grow to care for her in the same.

She’d been wrong – so wrong.

And now she is filled with bitterness, with sorrow, and with a broken heart as he leads another woman from his darkened shop. From her vantage point, it’s too dark to make out the woman’s features, just that she’s tall and brunette with an itty-bitty dress. His hand is on the small of her back as he leads the other woman to the Cadillac parked on the side street. She’s leaning into him, this other woman, and while he is touching her, he does not return the gesture. He never did.

Belle watches as they walk along, their pace measured, his gaze never once turning towards the library or her apartment above. There’s a gripping in her chest as they reach the car, as he allows the woman to kiss him before she climbs in, the squeezing making it difficult to breathe as he returns the gesture. It hurts, this further splitting of her already broken heart. The squeezing stops as he pulls away and she can just imagine the expression on his perfectly schooled features – the one he always wore towards her. She can breathe again as he steps away towards his own side of the car, his body leaning on the cane as he rounds the hood. The grip goes away as he climbs in, as he shuts the door, but the pain of the broken heart remains as his tail lights vanish.

For long moments she stays in the window, carefully hidden behind those cheerful curtains. Silent tears track down her cheeks as she stands, as she makes her way across the darkened room to the doorway. Her gaze travels around the room slowly, taking in all that remains. Furniture she had so painstakingly chosen and put together. Brick-a-brack that had made the space feel like home. Sunshine yellow curtains that match those of the bedroom.

All she’ll leave behind.

Her steps are quiet as she crosses the space, stopping only as she reaches the kitchen table. Atop it sits four things – her purse, three envelopes, and the reason she can’t stay. Slowly she picks up the bag, its weight reassuring as she moves it to her shoulder. Next are the envelopes; one for her estranged father, one for her best friend Ruby, and one for the mayor as she turns in her resignation. Each she had written and rewritten, carefully picking the last words she will share with those in Storybrooke. She holds them as she gazes at the last item, her eyes blurring as she reaches for it. For a moment she considers bringing it, tucking it away in her bag as a bittersweet memory, but she can’t.

Just the sight of it feels like a dagger to her heart.

She draws in a breath before picking it up. Were she a braver woman she’d confront him with it – but she’s not. Their last words to each other had been harsh, thrown at each other in passion and in pain; her calling him a coward, him threatening her with a lawsuit.

No, this is one secret she’ll take with her. The test clutched in her hand, she walks to the trash, starring at it a moment longer before dropping it. Before she can change her mind, Belle leaves, flipping the lights to off before locking the door one last time.

~ R&B ~

Gold stands in the open doorway, his gaze traveling slowly around the room. He’s been here before; he’s the landlord after all; but never when _she_ lived there. That had been intentional. His house, his territory, his rules. All designed to keep things between them from developing into anything resembling more than what he offered. Yet she had foolish gone and thought herself in love with him.

Stupid girl.

He’s angry – at himself, at her, at the situation – as he takes in the room. The knowledge that he can charge more for it being furnished does little to squash that anger. His grip tightens on his cane as he crosses into the room, taking in the bits and pieces of _her_ that she’s left behind. The bright curtains at the windows, the mismatched furniture scattered around, the calming pictures on the walls; everything that made Belle _Belle_. No, he will not dwell on what was.

He wanders the apartment, checking the condition of the bathroom, of the bedroom, and of the living room before heading to the kitchen. Each room he has to remind himself to not think of how each space somehow represents her. If he’s honest with himself – _and he rarely isn’t_ – she meant more to him than the casualness he tried to pass off.

After a year how could she not.

As he stands in the kitchen, his gaze focused on the sunflower crockery on the counter, he lets the pain seep in briefly, letting it sag throughout his bones. Let’s himself _feel_ the loss of their relationship, something he has denied himself these thirty-five days. Just as quickly, he straightens up, shoulders squaring as he gives one last look around the apartment.

There’s not much for Dove to tend to, she really has left the space in excellent condition, but still, there’s the small things he’ll need to do. He steps to the counter, intent on finding a piece of paper to jot down a list of what needs to be done when his gaze is pulled to the trash can at his feet. The color drains from his face as he reaches in to pick up the items on top, his fingers unwillingly trembling as they hold the brochures and test.

_She’s pregnant._


	2. Hey I Don't Know

**_AN: Thank you all for the warm welcome and the wonderful reviews. What a fun and happy little fandom Rumbelle is – I’m so excited to be part of it. *insert imp dance here* I was not actually thinking of this story being more than a one-shot but from everyone’s positive feedback, I decided to continue. Though I have a vague idea what direction this is going to take, I’m still not entirely sure so we’ll just have to see._ **

~ R&B ~

He sits in his darkened study, a half bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk. Six hours has passed since he found the pregnancy test in the trash can, leaving him plenty of time to think and to plan. His first thought; he’s ashamed to admit; had been to take his cane and destroy her apartment. He’d just managed to keep from doing so, his knuckles turning white at how tight they grip the cane, but he stops.

The apartment is part of _her_ , and a part – a large part – of him cannot bear to be the destroyer of that.

No, he had managed to keep that anger in check, instead focusing his energies into finding where she had gone. With the test had been numerous packets of information on adoption and abortion centers in Bangor, outlining the various options available to her. And while there had been no packet on navigating a pregnancy, he will not get his hopes up that she has decided on _that_ course of action. Not until he finds her.

And find her he will.

There’s no stone he will not uncover for a child that is half him – and there’s no doubt in his mind that it is. Belle had been wholly inexperienced when they had begun their affair some fifth-teen months before, something that should have thrown red flags up at the foolishness of beginning a relationship with her. How many women, after all, reach the age of 31 so completely inexperienced in the mechanics of not only an adult relationship but in sex in general; especially in the society in which they lived.

He should have run as fast as his crippled leg would let him.

But the answers to the question of why he hadn’t can wait till later. For now he must find her, and for that, he had called Glass. While the private investigator tended to annoy him, Gold would admit that was more personality than ability. There was the added benefit that Glass was local and actually knew Belle, something the PIs’ Gold had in Bangor did not. Nor were they entirely open to the financial incentive he had provided to the local PI – four times his normal rate plus an added bonus if he should succeed in finding her within forty-eight hours.

He takes a long sip of his whiskey, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the desk. There are plans to be made for when she is found, starting with how quickly could they marry. He had Dove already working on clearing the back parlor and sunroom of the items they had collected there over the years. By mid-morning, everything should be removed and the painters could begin updating the walls. Yes, that part of the plan is moving along nicely.

Now all he has to do is find her.

The wait is torture.

~ R&B ~

 

Belle has not, in fact, traveled far from Storybrooke. Her intentions had been to put as much distance from the town and herself as she possibly could but reason had kept her from doing so. She just does not _know_ what she is going to do yet; in all her planning of keeping the baby and leaving, she hadn’t quite figured out where she was going to go. Or what she’d do for a job for that matter. Her first priority had been to quietly pack the belongings she would take, withdrawal the travel fund she had been putting aside to one day see the world, and leave – all without anyone knowing.

That she had managed.

And so when she had left town that evening, driving down the dark State Route 186 towards Route 1, she had no idea where to go. Sitting at that intersection, traffic light for it was a weeknight, she had frozen with indecision. _Where_ was she actually going to go? Left towards Bangor and the rest of the US or right towards Canada. For long moments, she had considered Canada, of spending a month visiting another country as she thought about her plan, but in the end, that reason had won out.

She had instead turned left towards Bangor, eventually following the roads to Bar Harbor. There she had found a quaint cottage to rent for the month, to spend some time really reviewing her finances and her options. A month, after all, should be more than enough time to figure out where she wanted to live, what she’d do for a job, and how she’d manage all that with a newborn in town.

Who is she kidding – there’ll never be enough time.

Her decision to leave was rash; she knows this, but not wrong. Seeing him day in and day out would eventually destroy her, and in the process harm the child she is carrying. And therein lay her other problem.

Her decision to keep the baby from him.

She has agonized over her choices in the two weeks she has known. In a simple world there would be two – keep the baby or put it up for adoption – but the ending of their relationship had the added problem of if she should tell Marcus or not. _That_ had been the harder of the choices as she had known almost from the moment she had found out that she would keep the baby. It was part of her and part of him – the little part that she would be allowed to keep and to love.

Plus there was his promise of a lawsuit against her if she tried to contact him for anything.

When they had parted ways, he had been very specific. She was to not to contact him for _any_ reason. Problems with the apartment she rented were to be dealt with with Mr. Dove. Yearly renewals would be handled by Mr. Dove. Any mail that might accidentally be delivered to the library for Mr. Gold should be given to Mr. Dove. He had stopped short of demanding that if he entered a business she was visiting, she would leave, but she could tell it had been close. And if she broke any of those terms, he would find a reason to file harassment charges against her.

Not speaking to him had been the easy part in the long run. Not seeing him around town, not missing him at random moments throughout the day had not. Seeing him with the woman the night before had been it. Not that she hadn’t planned on leaving; her car had already been packed; but it had solidified her decision to not tell him about the baby.

~ R&B ~

**_AN: And now for your input – does he find her within forty-eight hours or does it take a few months?_ **


	3. Where I Belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Sorry for the delay but as the consensus was pretty evenly split between him finding her within two days and over a period of months, I had to work out which way to go. Then the muses took it their own way towards their own path and refused to let me continue the angst much further. Apparently my internal Rumple and Belle don’t like the discord between them to last too long. So I compromised with them on this. I should add that I’ve done extensive plotting and planning on where I think Storybrooke is located and have decided that it’s around the area of Winter Harbor, Maine in the real world, just larger. I’ve also created my own facilities in Bar Harbor as this is a work of fiction and it just feels more comfortable that way. I also do not have a medical degree in any sense unless my own experiences and ER/Grey’s Anatomy count. As Lways, thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I am blown away by the interest and feedback in this little story. Hopefully you enjoy this little update.

It’s not until three months have passed that Gold finally locates Belle. The warm, humid air of July has settled over the State of Maine and with it, an influx of tourists, each and every one of them seeking to enjoy the countless beaches and national parks. For those who lived in the typically quiet seaside towns, it meant an influx in not only customers but money as well. For Gold, there was the added benefit of those seeking legal representation for countless misdemeanors the visitors always seemed to rack up. He has not given up on finding the errant woman by any means, but he finds his days and evenings busy with the various responsibilities that come with owning a profitable business and law firm but also most of the town rental properties.

 

Though, if he’s being truthful, he has been starting to believe that Glass knew more than he was letting on. That was confirmed with an early evening phone call from the hospital in Bar Harbor.

 

Gold is sitting in the study of his Salmon house in just his shirt sleeves and trousers; the jacket, vest, and tie long since removed in an attempt to beat the unprecedented heat and humidity suffocating the area. Even with the air conditioning system on to its highest setting, it is finding it difficult to completely relieve the stickiness. Before him, various ledgers are spread about as he reviews the expenditures and revenues for the Fourth of July holiday week, his meticulous nature leaving him to always review the work of various computer software programs with good, old-fashioned books.

 

He is nearing half-way when the mobile next to him rings, a quick glance at the screen revealing a number he does not know. _Probably a bloody tourist locked out of their renta_ l is his thought as he reaches for the device, grumbling about the damned answering service he employs giving out his personal number yet again. It has been a point of contention with him and the local business on a number of occasions and he is seriously considering switching to one of the national businesses he has found online.

 

It’s not a tourist, nor is it the answering service.

 

His quick retort of sarcasm and annoyance is chased away by the polite but clipped voice of a woman on the other end, informing him it is Bar Harbor Hospital’s Emergency Department asking for a Marcus Gold. Upon his confirmation that he is, indeed, Marcus Gold, the woman informs him that he is listed as the emergency contact for a Belle French and that she’s been in an accident.

 

~ R&B ~

 

It takes over an hour before he can push his way through the doors of the emergency department, his gut twisted in knots of worry and tension, as his majordomo follows closely behind. He has forgone the tie, jacket and vest in his haste to reach her, only remembering to slip on his shoes as he waited for Dove to pull the car round the front. Throughout the ride to the neighboring town, Gold has used the numerous contacts he has throughout the town and county to try and get answers, leaving Mr. Dove to drive the seldom used SUV around the Mt. Desert Narrows and Frenchman Bay. With summer traffic, it takes over an hour to reach their destination; the only information he has been able to obtain is that her vehicle was struck by a drunk driver; and he is beyond panicking.

 

No one can give him any update on her condition.

 

“Belle French,” he demands of the woman at the information desk, his mind on little else but finding her.

 

The woman is un-phased by his blunt demand; the only indication that she has heard him is the raised eyebrow she aims in his direction and her calm “you are?”

 

He wants to say the man who loves her but he still has enough of his senses to know that won’t get him anywhere. Instead, he goes with “Marcus Gold, her emergency contact.” This gets him a look before she turns to her computer, confirming what he has said.

 

“Ms. French is in curtain area seven…”

 

He hears nothing else of statement as he begins walking to the secure door separating the waiting room the rest of the emergency room, his need to see her overwhelming as he pulls on the handle. The door does not budge and it’s only after three attempts that he notices the sign saying a member of the staff must grant access. Stalking back to the desk, he slaps his hands down, glaring at the woman as he demands to be let in. When he thinks back on the evening, he’ll be impressed with the woman for barely flinching at his demand, instead meeting his eye as she tells him that Ms. French is resting.

 

It takes a great deal of self-control to not lean across the desk to find the button for himself, instead reaching deep within for iron will. “If Ms. French is asleep,” he says, his jaw clenched as he looks at the woman, “I will not disturb her. However I _need_ to see her.”

 

Something must show on his face, though what he isn’t sure, as the woman nods and presses the button to release the door. He is through it quicker than a man with a limp and a cane should be, his eyes scanning the room for curtain area seven. Before he can make it too far, a nurse is before him, leading him to a small cubicle behind a nurse’s station. For an emergency department, it is quiet, just two other patients in the ten bed room, however he barely spares them a glance as the nurse pulls aside the curtain.

 

Belle is curled on her left side, numerous wires and an IV tube running from under the white sheet covering her. In the bed, she looks so small, her hair a mess of tangled ringlets behind her. A white bandage covers the side of her face, tucked along the curve of her jaw from forehead to mid-cheek. He can see, however, that she’s asleep, the constant beep, beep of a heart monitor reassuring him that she’s alive. “Oh Belle,” he says on a sigh, the tension around his heart lessening a fraction as he steps to her side. It’s only now, as he looks down at her, that he remembers their baby.

 

“Is she… _they_ …alright?” he asks the nurse, his gaze never leaving the woman before him. Had he not spent the last three months analyzing his feelings and their entire relationship, it would be that moment that he realized that he was madly in love with her, however that ship has long since sailed, but it’s confirmed, for him, in the simple fact that from the time he heard about the accident until now, he has not once remembered the baby. His fear and panic has all been for the petite woman who holds his heart. It’s only now as he gazes at her, can reassure himself that she is alive, that he remembers the baby he’s supposed to know nothing about. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, or in his case, appreciate how much of an utter ass he has been, and he can’t feel even the slightest anger that she has not reached out to him.

 

“They’re both fine,” the nurse answers as Mr. Dove moves a chair behind his boss. “The doctor can tell you more; however Ms. French is primarily bruised. She does have a large laceration on her face that plastics have stitched and her left wrist and hand are fractured, but overall she is lucky.”

 

He sets his cane against the bed as he sits in the chair, his hand reaching for the fingers he sees lying on the bed. “Is she alright to lie on her left side with a fractured wrist,” he asks, his fingers lightly resting against hers. He just needs to _feel_ her.

 

“Her blood pressure was understandably high when she was brought in, and while it lowered some when we assured her everything was alright with the baby, the doctor wanted to try to lower it further naturally before exploring other options.” Saying this, the nurse moves to check the last reading on the monitors before continuing, “it’s not the ideal position for her wrist and hand, however we’ve been able to lower her blood pressure almost back to normal without medication. Her doctor was meeting with the police to review Ms. French’s injuries before taking a break. I’ll let him know that you’re here when he returns.”

 

Gold manages a thank you before the nurse leaves. There’s quiet in the curtained area for a few moments as both he and Dove listen to the reassuring beeps of various monitors. From a quick glance, he has gleamed that one is monitoring Belle’s vitals while another is tracking their child’s and he finds reassurance that both are apparently within normal range.

 

His gaze moves to the man standing beside him as he speaks lowly, hoping to avoid disturbing her rest. “I want to know _everything_ there is to know about this accident and whomever was driving the other vehicle. _Everything_.”

 

Dove says nothing, just nodding before leaving Marcus and Belle alone. He shifts in his chair, moving closer to the bed, leveraging himself up. For a second, he does nothing before cautiously leaning down to brush his lips against her un-bandaged forehead. “I love you,” he mutters softly, one hand raising to carefully brush stray locks of her hair back, before sitting again to wait.


	4. Line's Upon Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I can’t say that I’m absolutely thrilled with how this chapter has come out, but I’m not sure if it’s because the dialogue is throwing me or if it’s something else. I hope you’ll let me know your thoughts on not only the flow, but on his reasons as well. As before, thank you all for your wonderful feedback. You are the reason I’m getting this out so quickly.

She sits in the dark just watching him sleep. This strange man before her; gripping her right hand between his two; is not the man she left behind. He is attentive, considerate, and caring; his touch gentle as he brushed tangled locks of hair from her face or pressed warm lips in chaste kisses against her forehead. Even the influence he has shown in getting her a private room is different than the demanding demeanor he normally took with those he considered beneath him. He has left her side only once and that at the forceful demand of the nurse who helped her to the rest room.

If they hadn’t threatened to remove him from the hospital, he probably would have stayed.

She’s confused. Not just from the accident that has left her battered and bruised, but from the complete turnaround the man has undergone. They have not spoken of their former relationship or the pregnancy that is so obvious. They’ve not talked of anything important actually, and she’s waiting for the shoe to drop. This – gentle – man before her scares her, makes her wonder what he is planning. She sighs, shifting on the bed slightly; trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard pad they call a mattress.

“Belle?” The voice is slurred, heavy with sleep as the grip on her hand tightens. She finds her gaze settling on him, watching as brown eyes flutter open. He’s disorientated; she can see that clearly, as he blinks his gaze around the room. Eyes finally settling on her, he leans forward as he asks “Swha’s wrong?”

She cannot help the smile that pulls at her lips; she’s never seen him quite this unfocused and vulnerable. He blinks again, his gaze more focused than before as he meets her eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m here,” is her response, knowing anything else would be a lie. She’s sore – so sore – but she’s refused all pain medication because of the baby. Even the ones the doctor’s assured her would be safe. A little pain is something she can deal with to ensure her baby is as healthy as possible.

He stands, her hand still held tightly between his, “what can I get for you?”

“Nothing.” She shifts again, wincing as her bruised body pushes into the metal supports under the thin mattress. “I’ll be fine,” is her quick retort as she sees him opening his mouth to speak, an edge to her voice now that she’s more aware. He’s standing there looking oh so gorgeous in his rumpled shirt and mused hair, and all she can see is the cold man who threw her out of his life so many months before. She pulls her hand from his, letting it curl protectively around her slight bump. A range of emotions plays across his face, emotions that she ignores in the moment as she spits “Why are you here?” with as much venom as she can muster.

Instinct has his shoulders tightening at her cold fury, at her separating herself from him, but it quickly dissipates to the slumped shoulders of resignation. She has every right to be angry, every right to wonder why he’s bothering with her. He sighs, his hands fidgeting on the edge of the bed, fingers reaching for the cotton blanket covering her. “May I sit?” he asks, the blanket twisting in those fingers.

“Be my guest,” Belle acquiesces after a pause and watches as he wearily settles into the chair he has just been sleeping in. Her confusion has grown at his slumped shoulders, at his lack of fight in response to her fury. The man who had been her lover for over a year would not have backed away from the fight but would have lashed at her. He would not have settled into a chair drooping as though the world is on his shoulders.

There’s quiet between them as Gold stares at the bed, his fingers twisting in the white basket weave of her blanket, she watching him through guarded eyes. “I was married once,” his voice is soft as he avoids looking at her. She is about to question what that has to do with anything when he continues, “I know it might not make any sense but please, let me continue,” he pauses here, his gaze finally lifting to meet hers, “let me get this out in the only way I know how.”

The look in his eyes is so raw and unlike anything she has seen from him before that she can do nothing but nod her acceptance. She knows about the marriage; _everyone_ in Storybrooke knows of the marriage; his ex-wife has always made it known who she was associated with every time she stepped into the town. Which thankfully was not that often at all and Belle can happily say she has never once crossed paths with the woman.

“I was married once,” his voice cuts through her thoughts, his eyes have not left her and she finds herself meeting his with guarded affection. “We were young, which,” his chuckle is cynical and full of knowledge gained in hindsight, “made us completely stupid. She was pregnant within the first weeks of our meeting. I thought it grand,” his voice is even more bitter now, dripping with self-loathing as he shifts his gaze to a point behind her shoulder.

“I always wanted to be a father and this just seemed like kismet, that fatherhood and being a husband was the next step in my journey. And as I thought, it was not like I could not support her and our child. I’d already managed to make a comfortable living in Boston as a corporate real estate lawyer and was on the path to make even more.” He’s unblinking at he tells his story, his eyes never leaving the point beyond her shoulder. “We were married in a small ceremony at city hall; just us, her parents, and a judge; three days later she had an abortion.”

“That should have been my first clue,” robotic now, stiffens, “and yet besotted fool that I was, blew it off. I thought myself in love and told myself she was just young, scared, and unsure. So I spoiled her, catered to her every whim, showered her in love, and did anything she requested of me.”

Before tonight, Belle would have been hard pressed to associate the man he is describing with the man she had shared her time with. He’d not been horrible during their association; he’d been respectful and attentive; just aloft. Yet with the emotions swirling in the brown depths of his eyes, she can see the man he was – and is. She reaches out with her uninjured hand, fingers curling around his long ones still twisting at the blanket.

He’s startled at the contact, so lost in memories that he was, and finds himself meeting her gaze for the first time since his story began. She’s still guarded; he can see that clearly;, but there’s a tenderness that hadn’t been there before. “I won’t bore you with the entire story,” as he continues, he keeps his gaze on hers, his hand shifting to intertwine with hers in a tight grip. “Much of it is the same. Year after year I played the love-struck fool, never seeing what was clear to anyone looking in from the outside.”

“Until I caught her with one of her many lovers. It was an anniversary of ours – six years since we had first met – and I thought to surprise her with a romantic dinner at some popular restaurant. All these years later the name escapes me,” his voice has taken on that cynical chuckle again, and Belle finds her heart aching for him. “So I left work early with all intentions of sweeping her off her feet, surprising her with yet another bauble I had picked up for the occasion, and romancing her as I thought she cherished. Instead I was the one surprised when I walked into our bedroom and found her fucking another lawyer from my firm.”

“Cora Mills. A cold-hearted shark in not only real estate but social settings as well – and one of the few people I can say I honestly hated. There she was,” his grip on her hand tightens unconsciously as his jaw does, “my _wife_ ,” he spits the word out, “eating her out. The _bitch_ saw me first, just stared at me across the room, her fingers tangled in my wife’s hair, with _glee_ in her eyes.”

As suddenly as the tension had filled him, it dissipates, his eyes so filled with swirling emotions as he clings to her hand. “In that single moment, my whole life came crashing down around me. And for the longest time,” he pauses here, coughing to cover the break that has come to his voice, “I thought it was the worst thing that could happen. I left. Found a hotel with a bar and drank myself to blackness, just wanting the aching in my chest to stop. The next morning I called out of work, to cowardly to see Cora in the halls, and sought out a divorce lawyer.”

“I’d have done it too,” his voice wavers, breaking her heart just that much more for him, “except she countered that she was pregnant. Naïve fool that I was believed her when she swore up and down that it was mine…”

Fearing what he’s going to say next, Belle tightens her grip on his hand, pulling it towards her until they rest on the bump that is their child. “Marcus,” her voice is insistent as she keeps her eyes on his, “this baby, you know that it’s yours. I would never have made you my emergency contact if it wasn’t.”

“Oh Belle, I never doubted for a second that this was my child.” He spreads his palm wide, covering their child as a weak but true smile pulls at his lips. “You’re not Milah. I know that now – I’ve always known that. You’re honest and kind and so brave with your love and your life, your willingness to continue on even after an old monster tosses you out to protect his heart.”

“We’ll get to that,” he says with a shake of his head, his fingers still splayed over their child. “First I need to finish.” He draws a breath, his gaze not wavering from hers as he resumes his tale. Braden _was_ mine; there could be no doubt in my mind when he was born with my nose and his eyes changed to mine within the first few weeks. Little Bae. I loved him _so_ much – more than I had ever loved Milah. He was my world, my reason to wake up every day. And what kind of father would I be if I divorced his mother."

“We stayed married for another three years, though things were vastly different. I quit the firm and moved us all to Storybrooke. Milah was beyond livid but I didn’t care. Bae was going to have the perfect life, we _were_ going to be a family, and if she wanted to keep access to the money and lifestyle she was accustom to, Milah was going to go along with it. _I_ was taking control, _I_ was making the decisions, we were doing things _my_ way. Except I was still the same naïve fool I had always been when it came to our relationship."

“Braden was three when he died,” the control he has been executing throughout his story finally breaks, his voice cracking with long pent up grief as the tears finally fall.


	5. 2 Sides of Me

It’s the warmth and pressure of Marcus shifting away that rouses her from slumber. They’d talked into the early hours of the morning, he finally breaking down with the years of grief, of self-loathing, and of destroyed trust in people, his body ravaged with sobs and shakes. And though he had protested profusely, she’d managed to coax him onto the uncomfortable hospital and into her arms. She’d held him through it all, and when he finally collapsed from the savage weakness following the release of so much tension and grief from his body and soul, she had run gentle fingers through his hair with muttered words of comfort.

 

Sleep had claimed her at some point and during that time, Marcus had managed to shift them about so she was draped across him and not the uncomfortable bed. She had awoken briefly to the early morning sunlight filtering into the room and his hands stroking her body gently; one on her left shoulder and the other her stomach. It was not a position they had shared before but she was hoping with time, it could be a frequent occurrence. She’d fallen back to sleep with his lips against her hair and his breath playing against her ear.

 

She opens her eyes to the clucking of some nurse arguing with Marcus about his being in her bed. Blinking, she glares at the woman who has pulled her from the cocoon of warmth and dare-she-hope love that she had been in before shifting her attention to Marcus. He’s hovering beside her more rumpled than he had been the night before, his eyes fierce as he stares down the nurse as he appears ready to pounce.

 

Her protector.

 

She has to smile as she reaches a hand out to him, “Marcus?”

 

His eyes give her the briefest of looks before they’re locked on the nurse again. “Good morning sweetheart,” his voice is softer as he speaks to her, the hard edge of moments ago lacking.

 

“What’s wrong,” she asks, her gaze shifting between the nurse and him.

 

“Nothing,” he shifts her eyes to hers, softening as he takes her hand tightly. “We were just having a slight disagreement about the _nurse_ waking you when you need your rest.”

 

“And I told _you_ ,” the nurse’s voice is unwavering as she glares at him, “the faster I can get Miss. French’s vitals, the faster we can get her discharged and you can take her home.”

 

Belle grips his hand tighter as her eyes implore him to let the nurse do her job. She sees the moment he agrees, the tension in his shoulders dropping slightly, and she offers him a bright smile. Her gaze then shifts to the nurse. “I want to go home – let’s get this done,” even if she doesn’t quite know where that is. Marcus sits in the chair beside her, his hand still wrapped protectively around hers as he glares at the other woman.

 

~ R&B ~

 

In the end, home turns out to be the large pink house on the edge of Storybrooke. When they had left the hospital, Dove waiting in the parking lot with the large SUV filled with her meager belongings and Gold pushing her wheelchair, she hadn’t fought them. Now that he knew about the baby; and more importantly _wanted_ both of them; there was no way that she could go anywhere else. It was awkward at first, the two of them settling into not only their newfound relationship and living together but also the impending birth of their child.

 

They managed though; even flourished; much to their mutual surprise and delight.

 

Four months after the accident, Belle gave birth to a little girl, Brianna Braden Gold, who had her father wrapped around her pinkie before she’d taken her first breath. Belle and Marcus were married not too long after. By the time Brianna was eight, she had been joined in the family by a sister and two brothers.

 

And they all lived happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And that my dear reader is the end of this tale. I do hope you enjoyed my littler foray into the world of Rumbelle fic writing. Thank you all for your kind words and ideas you’ve shared with my throughout the short journey. You are by far the friendliest and most welcoming fandom I’ve had the privilege of writing for and I do hope that you’ll leave one last thought. Also – if you ever have a request that you’d like to see me tackle, I’d love to hear your from you. Either leave me a message here or on my tumblr at thegrrlgeek8. Bye for now ~ J


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